


What Lies Beneath

by shadowsamurai



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 04:23:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsamurai/pseuds/shadowsamurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What a person shows on the surface is not always what lies beneath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Lies Beneath

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the episode 'The Devil's Foot.'Set as a sequel to the story above. Main influence is from the TV series, but I've used bits from the book as well to draw from.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I'm just borrowing things for a while and I promise I'll put everything back exactly how I found it when I've finished. Well, almost exactly how I found it. ;)

 

JW-SH-JW-SH-JW-SH

*John.*

*John.*

*John….*

*John.*

*John!*

I open my eyes and fumble for the lamp. Once the room is illuminated, I sit up, wishing for a respite, however brief, from my dreams and my thoughts.

In the week that has passed since our encounter with the Devil's Foot (for once, Holmes had no comment to make about my choice of title for the account of the case) I have been plagued by Holmes' tormented voice speaking my Christian name: the one and only time such a thing has ever occurred.

Sometimes I hear it when awake, when with him, and will turn to ask what he wants. But only upon seeing his face do I realise it was simply my imagination. I hear him when I am alone, and especially when asleep. No matter the dream, overlying it is the sound of Holmes' calling to me. Sometimes I hear my name simply spoken, sometimes whispered, and all too often it is shouted, in desperation, waking me with a start.

Our encounter with the powder left us both visibly shaken and while Holmes appeared to recover much more quickly than I, I cannot help but wonder if he is alright, or if the nightmares he suffered while under the influence of the drug haunt him as they do me.

Sleep will not come to me now, I realise, so I swing my legs over the side of my bed, fully intent on spending the rest of the night in our sitting room, with the comfort of the fire to chase away the shadows, of which there are plenty.

My thoughts over the incident are somewhat jumbled, but there are two things of which I am certain: my name being spoken with such force, and the undisguised feeling on Holmes' face when he realised what danger we had escaped from, a danger he felt he had unnecessarily put us both in. He seemed to have forgotten that it was by my own free will I stayed while he tested the powder; I certainly was not going to leave him, especially when he was supposed to be in Cornwall to rest.

The fire is mostly glowing embers by now but with a little persuasion, it roars back into life, and as I add a log or two, I feel warmth seeping back into my bones. I hope the noise has not awoken Holmes, and for a moment I stand quietly, my ears straining for any noise from his room, but the whole house is as quiet as a graveyard. Satisfied my nocturnal activities have not disturbed anyone, I settled myself on the couch, wrapping my blanket around me, my thoughts turning once again to our most recent brush with madness.

I will never forget how we lay there on the grass, having burst forth from the cottage to escape the noxious fumes. We were both suffering from our own nightmares, but seeing Holmes so distressed snapped me from my daze, and rousing him from whatever lurid thoughts he was having became my most important task. Once that was accomplished, after he called my name, I collapsed next to him. We lay facing each other, our hands reaching out, clasping one another's arms. For the first time I saw past Holmes' mask of indifference to what lay beneath, and reflected in his eyes was the depth of this compassion for me. I will never forget it because for one brief moment, we simply were. Not Holmes and Watson. Not detective and doctor. Not even simply loyal companions. We just…were.

I long ago gave up trying to categorise my relationship with Holmes for the simple reason no one - not even the man himself, and sometimes not even myself - would understand the terms I would use to describe it. Using words like 'respect' and 'admire' are acceptable, and certainly true. But there is more depth to it than that, and when one begins to talk about 'love' or a connection between souls, one walks into very dangerous territory.

Many people do not understand why I am so devoted to Holmes. I confess that the reasoning is lost on myself at times as well. He is certainly a most difficult companion to live with at times, yet for my loyalty and patience I have been rewarded with adventures I never dreamed possible, making my transition from war to peacetime much easier, and the unwavering friendship of a most loyal man. I see things about him that no one, not even his own brother, would know, and that is reward enough for me.

If I were to say that I love Holmes, that he is my soul mate, I doubt you would understand the true meaning of my words. Not all love is romantic, and not all true connections are those pertaining to romance. I thought my feelings only went one way, but Holmes speaking my name shows me they are reciprocated, even though, like myself, Holmes cannot voice or express his emotions.

I can feel a headache growing, as it always does, as I contemplate the man sleeping in the next room and our relationship. Occasionally I feel the need to try and quantify it, but I soon give up and simply accept it as being what it is. Though Holmes would doubtless disagree, not everything in life needs to be answered.

Feeling the welcome tug of sleep, I let my eyelids fall shut, and I breathe deeply. I can feel my muscles start to relax as I drift away, not a dream or thought in sight, for which I am eternally grateful to whatever God, angel or spirit may be watching over us.

However, a bloodcurdling yell brings me back to wakefulness with a jump and I let out a startled oath. I knew a peaceful night's sleep was too good to hope for, especially as the shout had, once again, been Holmes' calling my name. I slump down against the back of the couch, wondering if I will ever escape the torment that was unleashed by the Devil's Foot.

But then I hear the cry again, as clear as day, 'John!' rings out through the apartment, and I jump to my feet. Even in his sleep, Holmes' is calling for me; requiring my aid, perhaps, or am I part of a hellish nightmare for him? There is only one way to find out, and while I am somewhat loath to follow this course of action, every instinct in me as a doctor, and as Holmes' friend, lead me towards his bedroom. I must calm him if only to spare us both the wrath of Mrs Hudson, whom I love dearly but avoid upsetting at all costs. Holmes' shooting practice in the middle of the day is bad enough; I doubt she would take kindly to being roused from her sleep so rudely in the middle of the night.

With a certain amount of trepidation, I push the door to Holmes' room open, careful not to startle him. I have seen my fair share of deep sleepers awoken by the briefest of noise, the shock it produces almost fatal to their bodies, and Holmes is renowned for being a particularly light sleeper.

But on this night whatever dream is plaguing him has a hold over his brilliant mind so terrible it pains me to watch. I can see him, lit only by shadows, thrashing about in his bed, his covers all tangled around his thin body. I do not wish to venture further into the room, into the private space of this man, so I attempt the easiest solution first.

"Holmes," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. Nothing. "Holmes." This time a little louder; in fact, as loud as I dare go, but still he thrashes against some invisible demon.

With no small amount of trepidation, I creep into the room and slowly turn the lamp up. Still Holmes sleeps and I begin to worry. I reach out several times, always stopping short of actually touching his skin, and pull my fingers back. I have been witness to Holmes' sheer strength on many occasions, and once or twice been on the receiving end of his right hook. I have no desire to repeat the experience, but it seems shaking him might be the only thing that works now.

I touch his wrist carefully, rubbing the skin and saying, "Holmes," as loud as I dare. He mumbles incoherently, but does not rouse from his slumber. I move me hand up his arm, rubbing as I go, but nothing is awakening him.

When I reach his shoulder, I am also reaching desperation. I grab the thin joint and begin to shake him.

"Holmes! Holmes, you must wake up! It's me, dear fellow, Watson!" I tell him.

"John…," he mumbles back. "John…no…no!"

With a sudden move, Holmes grips my arm in his sleep and tugs. It is only with a set of good reflexes do I not fall across him. I manage to stop that from happening by putting my left arm out, but I know it will not hold me up. Somewhat unsure, I sit on the edge of the bed, noticing Holmes' grip relax slightly as I did so.

"Yes, Holmes, I'm here," I tell him.

"John…no…please, no…don't…John!"

I have never felt so helpless, as a person or as a doctor, than sat with Holmes at that moment. I had no idea what I could do to help him, but I knew I must do something. I started patting his shoulder instead, and carried on talking to him.

"Don't fret, Holmes, I am here. Nothing is going to happen. I'm here, I'm fine, Ho-Sherlock." The name sounds foreign on my tongue, but I hope it works.

And it seems to. Holmes' thrashing is becoming less violent, and his breathing is starting to even out. "John?" he asks, his voice thick with sleep, and I wonder if he is waking up.

"Yes, Sherlock, it's John Watson. I'm here, old friend, and I'm not going anywhere."

"Good."

"You were dreaming, old chap," I say, hoping to coax the reason for his distress from him.

"Nightmare," he corrects. "You…were dying. Captured…tortured…all my fault."

I realise instantly that Holmes' is not fully awake; such words would never have spilled forth from his lips if he were. Still the matter remains he is worried about me. "I'm alright, Holmes. Truly. I am sat here, with you, and we are both fine. Do not worry about me, old chap, I'm made of sterner stuff than that. Besides, if such a situation should ever arise, do not blame yourself. I do what I do because I want to; I will follow you wherever you go, wherever I *can* follow, for as long as I can or as long as you need me."

"Why?" Holmes croaks.

I decide on the simplest explanation, one that will not embarrass either of us or give me a headache. "Because we are friends, and that is what friends do."

"Thank you…Watson," Holmes says, and I smile. The sly old dog really was awake. I shake my head, knowing I will never fully understand him, and glad of that fact.

Then he surprises me further. He reaches up and prises my hand away from his shoulder, lacing his long thin fingers with my own shorter ones. "Holmes, dear chap, what are you doing?" I ask, confused by his actions.

"Sleeping," he replies.

"Good. But I need that hand back." No reply. "Holmes. I say, Holmes. Well, really." My only reply this time was a gentle snore.

I try to be angry, or evenly moderately discontent with him, but it doesn't work. For the first time since we returned from Cornwall, Holmes is peaceful. If that means I have to endure the discomfort of a night spent sat up, so be it. That is what friends are for.

FIN


End file.
